


Time to Go

by MissJeeves



Series: Timely [5]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bad Boyd, Fisting, Fucked Up, Gen, Gun Kink, Hospitalization, Lies, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rimming, Sex for Favors, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJeeves/pseuds/MissJeeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan should have gotten out of Harlan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Go

Boyd Crowder is already winning, because the first thing Tim does after waking up lucid in the hospital is lie to cops. He lies to the Lexington PD, to his colleagues, and to the other federal officers that got called in. The home invasion of a federal lawman triggers a much bigger response than the average criminal might expect.

Tim thinks Crowder knows precisely what is happening, and doesn’t care.

And he doesn’t have to, because Tim lies to protect him. To protect Raylan _from_ him, rather.

Tim doesn’t think he’s a good liar, but a major part of his job is detecting when he’s being lied to. So, he knows what to do.

He tells most of the truth. There are some facts everyone can agree on. Tim returned home to meet Rachel and return her a file. Upon entering his apartment, three assholes were waiting for him. They bashed him in the head and the balls, broke his arm, and whipped the hell out of his ass with his own belt. Rachel’s phone call interrupted the party, at which time Tim got stabbed and left to bleed out.

All of that is true. Tim only modifies the story a little bit. He implies they cold-cocked him a lot harder. They wore masks made from old white t-shirts. Tim definitely never saw their faces and can’t identify them. He has no idea who they were or what they wanted from him.

He thinks he sells it. The interview doesn’t last long before the nurses kick all his visitors out. Tim has to spend the next couple of nights hospitalized. Part of that might be his claims about the head injury. The doctors tell him he doesn’t have any concussion symptoms, but unfortunately they were there when he was lying about what happened and he played up the head injury part to explain how he doesn’t remember what his attackers said.

Otherwise, Tim is actually okay.

Boyd could have done a lot worse. He absolutely would have done a lot worse if Rachel hadn’t called when she did.

As is, all he has is a black eye and a sore ass with more than a couple gashes deep enough to require stitches. The doctors say his arm probably won’t require pins and that the stab wound - though it still feels like a burning hot poker - didn’t hit anything important.

Everything hurts, though. Everything is _excruciating_. There is no position that doesn’t put pressure on something. His neck hurts. They broke his left arm but stabbed him in the right shoulder, so he can’t lie on either side. Putting him on his belly hurt both of those. His striped ass makes sitting up unbearable. In the end, the nurses just kind of prop him up on his back as best they can, with pillows supporting the places he’s not bleeding. They also keep the pain pills coming, at least for now.

The drugs make Tim woozy and philosophical. He has an appreciation for the fact that his father was always too drunk to hit him this hard with the belt. Tim also usually got away after a few lashes, since there weren’t any accomplices to hold him down. He’d considered his childhood whippings to be bad. Now he realizes those beatings were minor and he should have been more cheerful about them.

He also decides that Boyd’s vast experience as a violent criminal has made him uniquely talented at assault and battery. It clearly imparted how to inflict a non-lethal beating that nevertheless is incredibly painful. Boyd is really, really good at intimidation assaults. It should probably go in his file.

Rachel, however, seems less impressed with Boyd’s handiwork. She also might not believe all of Tim’s lies. For the first time in his life, Tim curses her professional skills. All the same, she agrees to watch his cat while he’s hospitalized.

Rachel comes to see him, alone, the next day.

At first, Tim thinks it’s just a sympathy visit. He thanks her for the whole calling 9-1-1 thing and she razzes him about ruining her clothes with his blood.

But then she asks him to tell her again what happened, and he gets worried.

“You’re sure you can’t describe them better,” Rachel says. She doesn’t have her notepad out, but he knows this demeanor. He’s just not used to being on this side.

“Kentucky hicks,” he says, sticking to the truth. “Average build, average height. Two of them were white, I didn’t see the third one at all. But these shitkickers are usually pretty racist.” Also not untrue.

Rachel smiles a little. “You remember any of what they said?”

He shakes his head. “I think they were too dumb to realize they should deliver the message before inflicting the head injury. All I really remember is that they were going to fuck me up.” He goes for flattery. “Thanks for interrupting that before they, you know, killed anyone.”

“You’re welcome,” Rachel says, but she has a keen look in her eye. “Did they say they were going to kill you?”

He wishes he could distract her. But he’s kind of stoned and she’s smarter than he is when he’s not on narcotics. So Tim continues his strategy of lying to his partner like an asshole.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Seems like they had some stuff planned before that. But then you called.” They both know his pants were off, and not just to facilitate the whipping.

“They had time to kill you after I called,” Rachel points out.

“Not the fun way,” he replies.

“They had your gun,” she says.

“Don’t remind me,” he mutters. Boyd took that with him. Tim knows it’s not like Boyd lacks for weapons, but still. “Was also my knife.” That, they left in him.

“What I find odd,” Rachel says, “is I can’t tell if they wanted you dead or not.”

Tim blinks at her. He waits for her to complete her thought before he has to lie some more.

“They definitely could have killed you,” she continues. “But they didn’t.” He nods. “But they stabbed you in the chest.”

“The back,” he corrects.

“That’s the other side of your chest,” she says. “Unless the guy that stabbed you was Dr. Shitkicker, that could have easily hit your heart or…” she trails off, unhappily.

“Hick shitkickers,” he reminds her. “Really fucking dumb.”

She’s not wrong, though. If Boyd had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be here. But stabbing him was spontaneous and mostly out of anger. If Boyd had pulled the knife out – and Rachel had dawdled on her way up – he could have bled to death.

Boyd might not have cared, either. Raylan’s told him how many cops Boyd already owns. One more wasn’t necessarily worth more than the satisfaction Boyd got out of stabbing him.

“Crime scene got lots of prints,” Rachel says, and she might be trying to be comforting, but he still thinks she sounds suspicious.

“Good,” he says.

A nurse comes to chase Rachel away before he has to do something shameful like pretend to fall asleep.

“You let me know if you think of anything I need to know,” Rachel says, before she leaves.

It seriously sounds like she knows something’s up. He doesn’t want to tell her. There’s no way she’ll understand he has to protect his boyfriend. His boyfriend, Harlan’s only gay hooker. Tim got stabbed by his boyfriend’s pimp, who just so happens to be Boyd Crowder. He can’t tell her that.

At a loss, Tim takes his next pain pill and nods off to some place where he doesn’t have to deal with this.

~

Tim gets a new guest the next day. He falls asleep after shitty hospital food breakfast and wakes up before shitty hospital food lunch. It looks and tastes gross, but he knows from experience that pain pills on an empty stomach are a terrible idea that ends in vomiting.

There’s a new figure, someone slight and petite, curled up in the visitor’s chair and playing with a smartphone. Tim’s reflexes are a little slowed and he’s sleepy, but he’s pretty sure there’s an officer outside to keep Crowder or his minions from coming back for more.

“Hey,” Loretta McCready says, when she notices he’s awake and squinting at her in confusion.

“Did you run away again?” he asks.

“Alison brought me,” she says. Tim looks around the empty room for the social worker, mostly so he can yell at her. “She went to get some coke.”

“You better mean the drink,” he threatens, but it’s kind of mumbled.

Loretta smirks and pretends like he’s not funny. “It’s Sunday,” she says, like that explains everything.

Tim just stares at her, wondering about the state of the foster care system that hospitalization doesn’t get him out of babysitting.

“What happened to you?” Loretta asks, after a second. “They wouldn’t tell me.”

“That’s called HIPPA.”

“Someone stepped on your neck,” she retorts. He must have a boot print on his throat; he hasn’t seen a mirror.

“Some people object to enforcing federal laws,” he settles on. “They paid me a home visit.”

Loretta looks disturbed. “Did they get arrested?”

“Not yet,” he says.

“You know who they were?”

“Did someone deputize you while I was unconscious?” he asks, irritated.

“Was it Dickie Bennett?” she busts out, looking guilty.

“No,” Tim says, catching on. “Least I don’t think so,” he backtracks, since he has to keep his story straight. “He’s in prison and the Bennett clan’s too dead to be paying anyone on his behalf.”

“Okay,” Loretta says, looking relieved. “Good.” She leans back in the chair, then glances down at her glowing phone. Abruptly, she raises it and Tim swears she just snapped a photo of him in his hospital bed.

“Did you just take a picture?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Her fingers tap across the screen. “Raylan wants to know if you’re okay.”

Tim stares at her. “You’re texting Ray-” he breaks off, glances out the door at his guard. “Loretta, that is not okay.”

“Sorry,” Loretta says, looking a little confused. “I thought he’d want to know.”

“Shut up,” Tim orders. He holds out his right hand. “Give me that.”

Loretta holds her phone against her chest. “Are you going to smash it?”

“Loretta!” He raises his voice, then drops it because he doesn’t want any more attention. “You do not belong in the middle of this. Give me the damn phone.”

“Middle of what?” Stubbornly, she still holds on to it. He hurts too much to make a grab for it.

“I got beat and stabbed,” he tells her. “Give me the fucking phone when I tell you to.”

“Did he-” she begins, looking lost.

“Stop talking,” he orders. “Give it to me.”

Whatever trust they’ve established over Sunday morning video games actually helps, because Loretta hesitates a second longer before reluctantly leaning forward and putting her phone in his hand.

Raylan hasn’t responded to the photo of Tim. It’s hard with one hand, but Tim composes a quick, forceful message:

“Delete this number. You got shot getting her out so don’t drag her back in.”

And then he goes into her contacts, shows great restraint in not deleting all her weed clients, and clears Raylan’s number.

As he’s deleting the text conversation, another message comes through.

“I’m sorry,” it says, somehow a thousand times more contrite in print than Tim can ever imagine Raylan being. And then, “I’m getting out.”

Tim deletes all traces of Raylan from the phone before handing it back to Loretta.

“What-”

“I need some discretion,” he interrupts. “Okay?”

Pretty much at the same time, they both see Rachel walking into his room. Loretta puts the phone back in her hoody pocket and shrinks into her seat.

“Hey,” Tim says, trying to act nonchalant and suspecting he’s doing a terrible job of it. “You remember Loretta McCready?”

“I do,” Rachel says, without much warmth. She remembers the Harlan mess Loretta was in, even if she doesn’t know the part where she stole Tim’s gun.

“Hi,” Loretta says, quietly. She manages to look suspicious, without even trying.

“Feeling better today?” Rachel asks.

“Ready to go home,” Tim says, since he doesn’t actually feel better.

“Think it’s either stay here or go to a safe house,” Rachel says. “And you should move.”

“Can you get a two bedroom?” Loretta pipes up.

“Can you stop compulsively selling marijuana?” he returns, grateful for the distraction.

Loretta, thankfully, keeps her mouth shut about Raylan. And her presence keeps Rachel from interrogating him some more. But it only gets him a reprieve until Alison returns to take Loretta back to her foster family.

~

“Nice kid,” Rachel says, after Loretta is gone. She doesn’t seem enthusiastic.

“For certain definitions of nice,” Tim corrects. “For instance, if you like weed.”

Rachel rolls her lips over. She looks at him, almost curiously. Tim reads the silent accusation – which might be a joke – and chooses to ignore it.

“I usually frisk her,” he says, just so there’s not silence. “But I am already high, so there wasn’t much point today.”

That gets him a mild smile, but then Rachel stands up and crosses the room. She pulls the door shut, firmly but quietly.

“I’m not sharing with you,” he says, although he’s pretty sure where this is going.

“Need to get her fingerprints for exclusion,” Rachel says, “since she’s been at your place.”

“Yeah, Alison might already have them,” he says. “Not sure Loretta will want to give those up to the Feds.”

“I don’t really care what she wants.”

He nods in agreement. “Her prints would be too small, I think.”

“Crime lab worked overtime on your place,” Rachel says. She’s pretending like she’s looking straight at him, but he can tell her gaze is somewhere past his pillow. “There was already one match.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t remember them touching anything but him. Maybe Boyd left prints on the knife. They could have been wearing gloves. He has no idea.

“Yeah,” Rachel says, flatly. “Raylan Givens.” She pauses. “The guy you were harassing for the past couple months?”

Tim feels stunned. He should have thought of that. It just never occurred to him.

“It wasn’t him,” he says, looking down at the lump of his toes under the sheet. “I’d have recognized him.”

“His prints were definitely there,” she says.

“I dropped him off in Harlan,” Tim says, knowing he’s just delaying the inevitable. “He couldn’t have arrived before I did. They were waiting for me.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, softly. She tilts her head, deliberately catching his gaze. “Then why are his prints all over your apartment?”

“Because he’s been there,” Tim says, honestly. He matches her quiet, calm tone. “A lot.”

She tries not to - Tim hears the hitch in her breath - but Rachel exhales loudly. She struggles to sound neutral. “Why?”

“Personal reasons,” he says, even though it’s never going to work. “On my personal time.”

“Okay,” she says, harshness edging into her voice. “And why are you spending personal time with one of Boyd Crowder’s thugs?”

“He’s not a thug,” Tim says, starting the argument that is going to be completely pointless.

“You didn’t answer the question,” Rachel accuses. She’s skipping the argument completely.

It hurts too much for Tim to shrug or throw his hands up in defeat. “I don’t have an answer you’ll like,” he says. “And you’ll just have to believe me that it has nothing at all to do with Crowder.”

“Does it have anything to do with the three examples of Harlan’s finest who attacked you?”

Tim opens his mouth, then shuts it tightly. He can do her the decency of not lying anymore.

“The three lowlifes that were definitely going to rape you?” she continues.

“It wasn’t Raylan,” Tim says, before she can go on. “I know that.”

“The Givenses and the Crowders are…” she trails off. “You know exactly what they are. If we arrest someone in Harlan for a federal crime, chances are they’re working for one or the other or both.”

“Raylan’s just Raylan,” he says, inarticulately.

“No,” she counters. “He definitely works for Crowder.”

“Are you gonna tell Art?” Tim asks, trying not to sound desperate. He knows she already pulled the fingerprint file; it’s just a matter of who else knows.

Rachel makes an exasperated face. “Is telling Art going to help?” she asks.

“No,” he says, emphatically. “Please.” He’s not quite begging. “It’s not going to help, it’s going to get a lot worse.” He rushes on. “Just exclude Raylan’s prints. Please. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Only if you’re absolutely sure he didn’t order this,” Rachel says. “And that he wasn’t there.”

“Absolutely,” Tim says. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“We’re not done talking about this,” Rachel says, seriously. “And you stop lying.”

“I can’t,” Tim says.

~

Boyd might know the power of Raylan’s imagination is worse than actually telling him what happened to Tim, but his men don’t.

Tim doesn’t answer his phone. Of course he doesn’t, if he’s unconscious and bleeding to death in a ditch like Raylan imagines. Barely holding it together, he finds Ellie May and uses her burner phone to call in a welfare check on Tim’s Lexington apartment. Using her phone is the only subterfuge; he doesn’t disguise his voice or anything. It’s the only thing he can do from Harlan.

Raylan spends the night unable to sleep. He stares at the terrible bloody handprint on his hat. It makes him fight hot tears against the backs of his eyes. He’s exhausted but wide awake. Every time he blinks, a new image of Boyd, Tim, and blood appears.

But in the morning, when Raylan is mechanically drinking his coffee in the bar area and waiting for the call on his cell phone that still hasn’t come, Devil and Johnny Crowder show up and remove all the mystery.

They gleefully explain that the plan was to beat and gangrape Tim. But Tim’s partner arrived unexpectedly, abbreviating the attack into whipping Tim as hard as Devil could with his own belt and Boyd stabbing him with one of his kitchen knives.

Raylan feels his whole body go cold.

“Your boyfriend screamed like –” Devil says, and Raylan interrupts by smashing his coffee cup into Devil’s face.

He never learns what Tim sounded like, but Devil makes gurgling noises while Raylan tries to kill him. Johnny grabs at him, and Raylan lets go of Devil long enough to throw Johnny over the bar.

Unfortunately, Johnny retrieves the baseball bat that lives back there and comes out swinging. Raylan takes a few agonizing hits to his sides, enough that he loses hold of Devil. It gets a little confusing after that, because it’s two on one and Raylan’s lost the advantage of surprise.

Johnny pins Raylan on his belly, against the bar.

Devil crows about finishing the job they started on Tim, and Raylan manages to free an elbow just to slam it into Johnny’s face. Someone smashes him in the back of head and the next thing Raylan’s aware of is his belt being yanked out its loops and grimy hands trying to force his jeans down.

He goes limp, but the limbs holding him down don’t fall for it. Devil snarls into his ear about how much Raylan isn’t going to enjoy this, his spittle hitting Raylan’s neck.

The next thing Raylan hears is the sound of someone loading a shotgun, and he madly wonders which they’re going to do first.

“Hey,” Jimmy the bartender says, from across the room. Raylan turns his head, sees the kid standing there with a sawed-off shotgun leveled in their direction. “Are you supposed to be doing that?”

“Fuck off,” Devil says.

“Yeah,” Johnny says. He takes some weight off Raylan and shrugs, casually. “We can take him out back if it bothers you.”

“I’m calling Boyd,” Jimmy says, waving his smartphone with one hand.

“You shouldn’t bug him,” Johnny tries.

But his erstwhile bodyguard makes the call and has a mumbled conversation Raylan can’t hear.

“Get off him,” Jimmy orders, abruptly and much louder.

Slowly, both Devil and Johnny let go and back off. Raylan shakes himself free, lifting off the bar and straightening. The hurt from the baseball bat reasserts itself, but Raylan ignores it. He pointedly does his pants back up, not breaking eye contact with Devil while he does so.

“Get out of here,” Jimmy says, gesturing with the shotgun. “Before Boyd shows up.”

Pissed, Devil and Johnny scatter. Devil mutters threats at Raylan, who looks for something else to hit him with.

Jimmy wanders closer, shotgun pointed askew.

“Thanks,” Raylan whispers, leaning against the bar. He’s pretty sure Devil cracked a rib.

“I’m supposed to lock you in your trailer,” Jimmy says, half apologetically.

Raylan looks at him, evaluates his chances of wrenching the shotgun out of his hands and just running for it. The twinge in his side answers that question.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly, and obeys.

~

Raylan is left alone in his trailer for most of the day. He’s locked inside. At first he thought Jimmy was speaking figuratively, since a shotgun would very effectively keep him there. But, no, there’s an actual lock in use. Raylan can’t believe he never noticed that was possible, before. He would have bent the damn metal so it wouldn’t hook close.

Sometime after sunset, there’s a knock on his door. Raylan can’t open it, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to. Instead, he sits on the bed and listens to the metal lock scraping as it opens.

Boyd appears in the crack in the door. Raylan looks at him, says nothing. If he’s being held prisoner, he surely doesn’t have to invite him inside. Boyd enters anyway, of course, and pulls the door shut behind him. He stands just at the entry way, though the small space means he’s not exactly far away.

“Thought you might be hungry,” Boyd says, with a kind of pleasant neutrality. He tosses a paper bag and bottle of water at him.

Raylan catches both, sniffing stale fast food in the bag. He’s not hungry in the slightest, but he is thirsty. Silently, with deliberate ingratitude, he twists the top off and takes a gulp. Boyd just stands there, watching him.

“I didn’t tell them to touch you,” Boyd says, seriously, after a second. It sounds like Boyd thinks it’s an apology of sorts.

Raylan stares at him. “Not _me_ ,” he says.

“Not you,” Boyd agrees, like it’s okay that he, Devil, and Johnny were going to gangrape someone else. _Tim_.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Raylan says, lowly.

He knows it’s futile to talk to Boyd about this. It’s better to shut up and act impervious, because Boyd just devours vulnerability. But he has to figure out how they got here, with Raylan locked in his trailer and Tim stabbed.

“Oh, yes I did,” Boyd says, as if they’re talking about mundane household chores. He strolls forward, ‘til he’s just in front of the bed. “Though, by now you know, I didn’t finish.”

“Please, don’t,” Raylan says, before he can stop himself. Begging Boyd is a position he never wants to be in. “You can finish here,” he says, not even trying to be seductive. Hell, he’d bet Boyd find his desperation more attractive.

This earns him a wicked smile. “You want me to whip your ass like I did his?”

He’s right. Boyd’s already getting off on this.

Raylan shrugs. “Whatever,” he says. “Whatever you want, stay here and do it to me.”

Boyd looms over him. “Martyr is not a good look for you, Raylan.”

“I’m not a martyr, I’m a whore,” Raylan tells him. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“It is.” Boyd reaches out, stroking his jaw line. Raylan can’t help but tense, because he’s expecting that hand to turn into a fist. Boyd notices the change and stops, his fingers tucked just under Raylan’s lips.

“You think you know me so well,” Boyd says, tilting his head. “Why don’t you show me what I want.” Raylan blinks at him. Boyd smiles with a lot of teeth. “And I’ll show you the error of your ways.”

Boyd does not want a blowjob. He communicates this by smacking Raylan in the face, open-handed. Hard enough to sting and knock him backwards on the bed. That hurts whatever Johnny’s bat did to his side. Slowly, Raylan rolls back up. His pain is obvious, because it makes Boyd chuckle. He gives Raylan a few seconds to reconsider his approach, kicking off his boots and shucking his pants. Oral sex won’t be the end of this.

Boyd starts unbuttoning his own shirt.

“You think I like fully-clothed whores,” he prompts Raylan.

Boyd walks around the edge of the bed and take a seat. When he’s naked, Raylan joins him there. Boyd’s cock is half-hard, lolling on his thigh. It’s not new information that he gets aroused hitting Raylan, but it’s unfortunate.

“One slap and you lose your ass-kissing spirit?” Boyd asks, and Raylan figures out what he wants.

~

The only reason Boyd wants a rimjob is because Raylan doesn’t like them much. Boyd’s half-hearted homosexuality has always been purely active. He’s a Roman senator out of place and time in Harlan, or he just likes the power dynamics of sticking his dick in someone and the orgasms are a bonus. In the past, touching Boyd’s asshole was a surefire way to end the sex session, albeit violently. Raylan only ever employed that move when he was young and dumb and thought this wouldn’t be his life forever. He learned quickly that wasn’t the way to get out of sex, it was just a means to have rougher sex while bruised.

So part of him thinks this is a trick so Boyd can skip to the part where he whales on Raylan, like in the old days.

And Boyd doesn’t make it easy for him. He won’t get off the bed or on his hands and knees, and he smacks Raylan a couple more times while they figure out positioning.

He ends up with Boyd sitting on his face. Kneeling above, but Boyd’s not being particularly considerate of how his weight leans on Raylan. In this position, Boyd has most of the control. Raylan can feel fingers toying in his hair, knows it’s going to get pulled a lot harder than he enjoys.

Boyd forgets – or never cared enough to ever learn – that sex acts he doesn’t like with men he also doesn’t like aren’t new to Raylan.

The only difference today is Tim, and that Raylan will do anything to keep Tim safe and Boyd away from him.

Boyd also forgets that Raylan is good at this. He might not expect to enjoy it, but Raylan is going to make him come.

Raylan sets to work with that goal in mind. He holds Boyd’s ass cheeks apart and finds his target. Boyd’s fingers tighten in his hair when his tongue makes contact. It’s not a painful grip, yet. Boyd won’t be shy about using pain to communicate dissatisfaction.

He can’t see Boyd’s face from this angle, so he has to rely on other signs. Boyd isn’t used to the sensation of a tongue against and inside his asshole; he’s extremely reactive to every move Raylan makes.

He twitches against Raylan’s mouth, as if undecided whether he wants to grind downwards. Raylan takes that a victory. He can feel the muscle cording in Boyd’s thighs, too.

He works harder, rewarded for his efforts by having his hair pulled some more. Boyd gives no direction, so Raylan takes the cheap way out. He pretends to use one hand to better access, fitting it between Boyd’s legs and pressing the pads of his fingers behind his balls. He times this with more suction, pulling off only to breathe hotly against Boyd’s skin.

Boyd’s hips snap, crashing into Raylan’s jaw in an unpleasant way. He also suddenly pulls Raylan’s hair so hard his eyes water.

With a grunt, Boyd swings up and off Raylan’s face. Raylan sees his erection, thick and full, lifting upwards.

“Oh, Raylan,” Boyd says, almost laughing. “You are good.”

Tentatively, Raylan sits up. His face is damp with Boyd’s musk and sweat, and his eyes are still tearing. He doesn’t wipe any of it away, just looking at Boyd for further instruction.

But Boyd, of course, doesn’t give him any.

Taking a guess, Raylan leans over and reaches for his dick.

Wrong.

Boyd immediately clouts him in the face, with almost a comically loud slap. Raylan retreats, trying not to wince.

“What, you want to make out?” he asks, and then instantly ducks.

Boyd doesn’t hit him for that, though.

“I shoulda invested in one of those high-tech pervert toys,” Boyd says. “You know, the ones that I can fuck but you can’t talk through.”

Raylan says nothing, just licks his tender lips. He doesn’t actually want to get struck again. Each one has been harder, and the more aroused Boyd is the less controlled he is.

Boyd reaches over and strokes down Raylan’s thigh.

“You want to ease my path,” he says. “You strip the skin from my dick, I’ll strip the skin from your back.”

Raylan isn’t sure that’s not going to happen, regardless. But he’s not dumb enough to turn down lube.

Boyd watches him get prepared, so Raylan puts on a show. He spreads his legs, knees up and open. Expediency doesn’t seem to be an issue, so Raylan takes his time. He inserts one slick finger at a time into his hole, fingering himself as he stretches and lubes up.

While he does this, Boyd presses on his own cock. He watches Raylan intensely, eyes bouncing from his face down to where his fingers disappear.

“More,” Boyd orders, when Raylan starts to withdraw three digits.

Carefully, Raylan presses his little finger against the rest of his hand and bears down as he takes it inside, as well.

“More,” Boys says, again.  


“Can’t from this angle,” Raylan tells him, not thrilled that fisting is on the table tonight.

Boyd sighs with disappointment. He leans over, presses his hand around Raylan’s stretched, pink hole. For a moment, Raylan thinks he’s going add his own fingers. But then, Boyd grabs Raylan’s bent wrist and shoves it, so he’s fucking him with Raylan’s own hand. It’s awkward and uncomfortable for Raylan, which means Boyd likes it.

Roughly, Boyd pulls his hand out. Raylan feels Boyd’s thumb against his asshole, empty and gaping a bit now.

“Want you tight for this,” Boyd says, mostly to himself.

Boyd shoves Raylan flat, directing him to lift his knees and wrap his ankles around Boyd’s back. He enters him with little preamble. Raylan feels the hot, blunt head and then Boyd slams home, all the way in.

He’s stretched enough that it doesn’t hurt.

But Boyd uses the hand not holding himself up to feel along Raylan’s side, until he finds a spot where Johnny Crowder hit for the fences, earlier. He must have seen the budding bruise, because he presses down on it precisely.

Raylan gasps in pain and Boyd looks down at him and smiles.

Boyd keeps his hand there. He presses down on every thrust and lets up when he withdraws. The result is a haze of pain and pleasure, because he bumps Raylan’s prostate while leaning on his battered ribs.

It makes it hard to breathe. Raylan’s actually a little disoriented and dizzy. He puts his hands on Boyd’s chest and pushes, but nothing happens. He feels Boyd’s bulk on top of him and inside him, and it hurts so much but he’s still hard.

Boyd’s balls slap against him, his pace quickening. The pressure on his ribs takes up the same jack-rabbit rhythm, a new kind of excruciating. The hot flush of Boyd’s orgasm inside him is instantaneous relief, because Boyd collapses on top of him and _finally_ moves his hand.

The weight of Boyd is still heavy and awful, but it’s not as localized. Raylan feels like he can breathe again, suddenly much more aware of everything. He’s soaked in sweat and his throat hurts like he might have been screaming. His traitorous cock is still half-interested, as Boyd grows flaccid inside him.

The only sounds are breathing, Boyd’s deep and sated and Raylan’s erratic and in pain.

Finally, Boyd pushes himself up. He knocks Raylan’s knees down from his waist and pulls out.

Raylan wants to close his legs, but Boyd is still between his knees. Boyd finds the water bottle he brought earlier somewhere in the sheets and takes a long drink.

Boyd doesn’t offer Raylan any. He stays where he is, looking down with a pleased smirk.

But he’s not done. He recaps the water bottle and drops it back in the sheets. Boyd nudges Raylan’s thighs apart, ‘til they’re up and open again. Raylan doesn’t resist. He feels fingers against his fucked out hole.

Boyd doesn’t fist him. Instead, he scoops the semen and lube dripping down Raylan’s thighs into his palm. Then he leans forward and makes Raylan eat it off his hand. It’s the normal salty bitterness plus sticky grease, and Raylan’s own musk. It tastes awful, but Raylan will do anything if Boyd won’t touch his ribs again. His ribs or Tim.

His cooperation pleases Boyd. At least, he doesn’t get hit again.

He does get fisted.

Boyd makes him flip on to his hands and knees. His hole is stretched and slick with Boyd’s own come. The pressure is so immense that Raylan hangs his head down. Boyd’s fist is large and clumsy. It feels like Boyd is trying to punch through him, more interested in how extreme the penetration is than anything else.

Occasionally, Boyd reaches around and makes sure Raylan’s erection remains interested in the proceedings. But, he doesn’t say anything. It’s almost as if he considers Raylan separate from the bodyparts at hand.

When Boyd removes his fist, Raylan feels gaping and empty. He tries to drop away, but Boyd grabs his pelvis and holds him up.

“Not done,” Boyd says.

Raylan stays. He feels something cold, metal, and extremely hard replace Boyd’s hand. It’s too weirdly shaped to be a sex toy. The edges are irritating and verging on painful, even though Raylan’s been so well stretched.

It hardly matters, but Raylan glances over his shoulder to find out what Boyd has inside him.

His breath catches.

Boyd is fucking him with a _handgun._ Slowly and deliberately, like it’s a dildo. The safety’s off.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Boyd tells him.

Uncontrollably, Raylan tries to scrabble away. He’s captured immediately, tackled around the shoulders. The gun…is still in him.

“I thought you said,” Boyd says into his ear. “Better you than your Marshal?”

Raylan nods, desperately.

“Get back up.”

He obeys, struggling on to his knees. The gun dislodges and falls out him.

Boyd sighs. But he doesn’t sound particularly angry. In fact, he has that post-orgasmic graciousness where he’s bizarrely affectionate.

“Turn over,” Boyd says. Raylan does, keeping track of the weapon. Boyd distastefully pick it up. “This is dirty,” he says, presenting the barrel to Raylan’s face. “Why don’t you clean it up?”

Raylan performs fellatio on the gun while Boyd watches him, grinning. He never lets go of it, looking amused at the way it bumps his teeth and strains his lips with its shape. Raylan is cold with resignation and horror, hardly comprehending the vague taste of gun oil or the ache growing in his jaw.

He doesn’t even notice these things until Boyd finally takes the gun away. Raylan’s mouth hangs open, his lips dry and stinging.

The gun hangs in Boyd’s hand, pointed nowhere in particular.

“You didn’t make it come,” Boyd says, with mock disappointment.

In response, Raylan opens his mouth again, wider.

Boyd smiles, but the gun stays where it is. With the other hand, he uses his index finger to push Raylan’s jaw shut.

“You think I need to beat you, too?” He says it with genuine curiosity. “I was going to. Seems like I should.”

Raylan shrugs. Boyd’s belt is somewhere in his jeans, on the floor.

“Think you could take it as well as your boy?” Boyd asks, tone deadly.

His throat dry and parched, Raylan swallows. He’s trying to speak, but Boyd moves on like he doesn’t need a response.

“Think you could take Devil and Johnny?” he continues.

He has to cough first, but Raylan manages to find his voice. “If that’s what you want,” he says.

“I don’t,” Boyd says, to his surprise. “By now you should realize, I will not share you.”

Raylan stares at him. He doesn’t know the reaction Boyd wants. Probably gratitude, so he dips his head.

“After last night,” Boyd says. “Your boy is gone.” Raylan looks up sharply. “Oh, he’s alive.” Boyd finds the implication that Tim was dead hilarious, because he stops to laugh. “But if he wants you, he’ll come in and pay like all your gentlemen cops.”

He looks to Raylan for understanding and Raylan gives him another nod.

“Now, I don’t have to threaten you,” Boyd says, like he hasn’t been doing that all night. “You know I’ll fuck him and kill him if I feel like it.” He leans closer to Raylan’s ear. “So, don’t make me feel like it.”

Boyd doesn’t extract a promise from Raylan. He knows he has it. He just leaves him naked in his trailer, his ass sore and stretched, his tongue coated in a gun oil and his jaw aching. When Raylan thinks about it, his ribs are excruciating.

There is no scrape of metal when the door shuts, meaning there is no physical lock. But Raylan stays, frozen. Semen is drying, on his face and between his legs. It’s itchy and flaking, but he makes no move to wash up.

That night is almost as sleepless as the one before it, except when he falls into a dreamless state so close to reality that he’s shocked awake when he realizes his eyes have shut.

The buzz of his text message alerts wakes him for real in the morning. It’s Loretta. She sends a series of alarmed messages, asking him if he knows Tim is in the hospital. He doesn’t respond until she snaps him a picture. It’s of Tim, a slight and battered figure on a gurney, scowling at the camera.

“Is he okay?” Raylan texts, because he can’t help it.

Loretta doesn’t respond. Tim does, but he doesn’t answer the question. It shouldn’t surprise him, but he rebukes him for getting Loretta involved in this mess. Raylan knows Tim is right. No one else should be here.

He looks again at the photo of Tim.

“I’m sorry,” he types. And then, “I’m getting out.”

~comments appreciated~


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